BY DOMINICK McCUTCHEON
This year marks the 80th anniversary of the liberation of France. This year also marks the 80th anniversary of the death of my great-uncle — a man from Texas whom I never met, yet a man whom my family, Texas, and the French, will always remember.
Second Lieutenant Jim Ragsdale McCutcheon was killed in action August 12, 1944, while flying his P-51D Mustang over German-occupied France. Jim had arrived at his base in Wormingford, England, only nine days earlier, as a replacement pilot in the 55th Fighter Group — an arm of the 8th Air Force. At that stage of the war pilot losses for the 55th were high, estimated at about 52%.
Besides flying bomber escort missions far into Germany, the 55th and other fighter groups flew across the English Channel into France to engage in dangerous, low-level interdiction missions. 55th pilots called these missions “Railroad Rodeos,” a shoot-‘em-up Western term used to describe their relentless bombing and strafing attacks upon enemy railroad yards, locomotives, oil cars, ammunition cars, troop carriers, and other targets of opportunity on or alongside the railroads.
For its part, the 55th Fighter Group — identified by green/yellow checkerboard patterns on their engine cowlings — earned a formal Distinguished Unit Citation, and the informal moniker of “Loco Busters,” after destroying or “busting” more locomotives than any other fighter group in the 8th Air Force.
On August 12, 1944, a raiding force of 26 Loco Busters was sent to engage in a Railroad Rodeo near Metz, France. Jim rode with this outfit assigned to a new Mustang whose tail the U.S. Government had branded number 44-13744.
Jim was last seen at the target area trailing his flight leader, diving towards oil cars and miscellaneous stock. After dropping his two 500-pound bombs, and for reasons unknown, Jim became separated from his flight. Radio calls to him went unanswered.
Seventy-three years later, I’m standing beside my idling rental car, 60 miles west of Metz, on the outskirts of the sleepy and picturesque commune of Revigny-sur-Ornain. During the war this town held strategic significance, especially because of its railway yards. Today this town holds personal significance, especially for my family. Jim was shot down here by anti-aircraft flak.
Gazing down from atop a small hill, I imagined Jim leaning in beside me when he stood 6’1” tall, and in his West Texas cowboy drawl, quietly pointing out the verdant terrain, winding Ornain River, canals, bridges, railways and quaint town structures. The scene framed in Jim’s hands like a peaceful, colorful pastel painting or postcard.
Then, I imagined Jim fighting here during the war, when things weren’t so peaceful or colorful. Like historical newsreel footage from that era, Revigny-sur-Ornain was mechanized, dangerous and gray. Hostile uniformed troops were rooted here like weeds aside their locomotives, rail cars, tanks, trucks, stores of munitions, gasoline and materials.
Targets of opportunity, as aforementioned. Jim must’ve come upon these targets perhaps while lost, or while prowling a roundabout course back towards England.
He weighed up the situation. Although his Mustang was out of bombs, its six Browning machine guns still held ammunition, and Jim still held fight — a potent combination. For a Loco Buster trying to bolster his group’s reputation, or a replacement pilot trying to prove his own reputation, the opportunity to strafe was tempting, albeit very dangerous.
Jim knew that the targets below were almost always protected by formidable and accurate air defenses, and that low-level strafing, even without the threat of flak, was an especially dangerous tactic, compounded even further when attacking alone. Yet Jim’s job was to fight the bad guys. What better way to help France restore its colors than to give the bad guys a well-deserved bloody red nose while on his way home? As a Loco Buster, and an idealistic American cowboy, Jim couldn’t pass up a good fight. He loped westward above the railroad tracks, following them towards his targets.
The occupiers heard the distinctive purr of a Merlin engine drawing nearer, cluing them that a P-51D Mustang, the newest and most beautiful fighter aircraft of the war, was headed their way. They also knew that the Mustang was much more lethal than beautiful.
An air raid siren screamed and warned of the approaching aircraft. Nervous ground troops stirred into action. Orders were barked. Anti-aircraft guns were made ready. Helmeted heads tracked the sky and listened, watched, and waited.
Saddled up in his cockpit, Jim stepped up the gait of his eager Mustang, finger ready on the trigger of his six guns.
The encounter began in the waning hour of 1 p.m., when the occupiers opened fire on the Mustang. In return, Jim let loose with his machine guns, and from behind his bubble canopy watched as the tracers hit their marks. The Mustang’s bare aluminum skin glistened as its engine sucked fuel, sweated oil and snorted out its exhaust. Jim reined, twisted and spurred his Mustang as the massive 11-foot propellor pulled Jim above the melee he had so eagerly created –– pilot and aircraft in their youthful and fighting prime, very much alive and in harmony, doing their jobs of loco busting.
The duration of the encounter, and how many strafing runs Jim made at his targets, will remain a mystery. But Jim lived up to the 55th’s reputation, as any Loco Buster worth his salt should’ve done. Indeed, Jim put up a good and spectacular fight, until at 1:50 p.m. the occupiers finally got lucky, and their flak put down Jim’s powerful and beautiful Mustang.
I wondered about that moment. While riding his way down, would Jim have thought of offering his opponents the final gesture of an upturned middle finger, or that of a respectful, crisp salute?
Jim’s Mustang crashed one kilometer east of Revigny-sur-Ornain, along the railroad tracks by the woods. A sickening thump reverberated throughout town, punctuating the obliteration of fighter plane and fighter pilot, much to the delight of the occupiers, and much to the dismay of the French for whom Jim — aged 20 –– had just died.
A French child who was witness that day wrote of the aftermath of the fight. A rough translation recalls, “At the Maginot Quarter, where the [occupying] troops are stationed, chaos ensues. Farmers with horses and carts are requisitioned to transport whatever can be salvaged. On the Market Square, it’s a hellish scene as Tiger tanks and others seek refuge under the chestnut trees. Some are still on fire, and water from the canal is a welcome relief. I can still see a soldier brandishing a rifle with a burnt stock.”
“Towards late afternoon, the children of that time had defied their parents’ prohibitions and gone to the rail yard to witness the flames. It seemed the entire rail yard was ablaze. The sky was dark with smoke, stretching over a kilometer, reflecting various colors. [Enemy] voices echoed everywhere. Unrestrained engines still struggled to move away from the inferno even two hours after the attack.”
“The horses of the requisitioned farmers were stamping their hooves, neighing in convoys loaded with whatever could be salvaged, and heading towards the Maginot Quarter via the Connissiere road. Meanwhile we young ones scavenged tobacco cartridges here and there, not forgetting the sweets.”
The French took possession of Jim’s badly broken body. Police issued his death certificate and recorded an identification bracelet found on his right wrist. Townspeople wrapped Jim in a mattress cover. A funeral was officiated at the town military cemetery, where the American was buried alongside French heroes. Colorful flowers adorned the American’s grave marker, until the occupiers caused those too, to be destroyed.
My family had only recently learned this incredible history, which compelled me to travel to Revigny-sur-Ornain. So here I was, overlooking the town, unsure of what to do, or how or to whom to express my family’s long overdue appreciation for the respectful and honorable manner in which the French treated my great-uncle.
I got back in my rental car, drove into town, and parked along the quiet main street. I had no overall plan, and I couldn’t speak French. However, I came prepared with duplicate photos of Jim posed in front of his Mustang, and translated handouts that explained my purpose. “Dear Sir or Madame: I am the great-nephew of James Ragsdale McCutcheon, an American P-51 pilot who was shot down and killed nearby here…”
As I slid the photos and handouts into mailboxes, and under windshield wiper blades, I estimated my odds of finding anyone who appreciated the significance of August 12, 1944, to be about 1 in 2,700-ish –– which represented the unfavorable ratio of me to the town’s population. I prepared myself for failure. Too much time had passed since 1944.
I came upon a small café and allowed its aromas to lure me inside. Feeling a bit hopeless, I plopped the photos and handouts atop my table, and ordered something by pointing to the menu, revealing myself as a tourist.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, and was somewhat stunned to find sitting behind me a pretty, middle-aged French woman motioning towards one of the handouts. I gave her a photo as well. In silence, her eyes alternated between the handout, and the photo of Jim, who was known to be very handsome. And then, as if she might’ve been realizing the death of her own son, her eyes began to water. She swallowed hard, then held up her forefinger. Wait. The woman flipped open her cellphone. Other diners gathered around her conversation, and the café came alive with whispers and accented chatter.
Something was happening. The woman had connections.
Moments later, and in through the door came the town vice-mayor, Alain Fisnot. Through his broken English, and between his friendly gestures and flattering excitement, I was able to understand that Revigny-sur-Ornain did appreciate the significance of August 12, 1944. There was much to discuss. Could I meet tomorrow at the town hall? Yes!
The next day I was greeted at the same town hall that had been occupied during the war. I was led to an upstairs room. The wooden stairs beneath me creaked. Did they creak like this on August 12, 1944? Who else had looked out these same windows, when different banners hung from them?
The upstairs room felt stately and historic. A stoic portrait of Andre Maginot overlooked a large wooden table where Mayor Pierre Burgain, Vice-Mayor Fisnot, translator Mickael Mathieu, and a small contingent of others, including the local press, stood respectfully waiting. These good people knew the significance of August 12, 1944, all of them gathered here by a man from Texas whom none of them had met, yet whom they all honored, and wanted to remember.
Vice-Mayor Fisnot showed me Jim’s death certificate, and a copy of his Missing Air Crew Report #7770. (MACR’s from WWII weren’t declassified until 1978.) He provided me with a copy of the child’s narrative of the aftermath of the fight. We compared notes and dates.
We thumbed through Jim’s squadron records, the 338th, self-described as “Earthquake McGoon’s Flying Circus.” One photo showed the Flying Circus posing in front of their Quonset hut at their August 11th chicken fry “having a jolly good time” while “celebrating nothing in particular.” They were all so young, jovial, and seemingly invincible.
Little did they know that the next day, two other pilots in addition to Jim would be lost elsewhere in France — 2nd Lt. William E. McMillan was KIA when he pulled up too late while strafing a locomotive, and 1st Lt. Richard J. Keough, who was taken prisoner of war after he bailed out of his Mustang, damaged by the explosion of a locomotive he’d been strafing.
I shared family lore about how Jim had been a cowboy and that he’d occasionally venture into Mexico for the night to return at dawn still a bit tipsy, disheveled, and covered in lipstick. He’d then retire to his bunkhouse, and from inside be heard lazily strumming his guitar while dramatically singing (yelling), an obnoxious version of “Home on the Range,” a classic folk song that romances the working life of an American cowboy.
Mayor Burgain pushed the town journal in front of me and offered a pen, inviting me to record my thoughts. At times like this, words seem inadequate. I wrote, and pronounced to all present, and as best I could, my family’s appreciation for the manner in which Revigny-sur-Ornain honored Jim’s sacrifice and kept his memory alive.
Then, much to my surprise, on behalf of the town of Revigny-sur-Ornain, Mayor Burgain used my physical presence to formally and posthumously present to 2nd Lieutenant James Ragsdale McCutcheon the great honor of their town medal. (I later gave the town medal to my father, Bennett Browning McCutcheon Sr., who knew and admired Jim, especially for his sacrifice to the greater good.) Mayor Burgain’s La Bise kisses to both sides of my cheeks ended the heartfelt presentation.
In the quiet that followed, all of us in that room realized that no stories, words, documents, gestures, or gifts could ever express what we all felt for Jim. I think we could all feel his presence, and we hoped he felt ours. Even the ghosts of the occupiers would’ve been touched by the ceremony. None of us in body or spirit left that room feeling unchanged.
Two weeks after I said goodbye and left for home, the town rededicated a monument to allied airmen killed in action during WWII.
On this 80th anniversary of the liberation of France, the French do indeed recognize the significance of August 12, 1944, and other dates that memorialize the sacrifice of eight other allied airmen killed in action before Revigny-sur-Ornain was liberated August 31, 1944.
October 14, 1943 – Charles Malcomb Baer (United States Army Air Forces), killed in his parachute after being rammed by an enemy aircraft.
July 19, 1944 – John Charles Broughton Boydell (Royal Australian Air Force), Alan Wesley Giles Fripp (RAAF), Beverly Hudson Gifford (RAAF), Harold Newall (Royal Air Force), Philip John Pierce (RAAF), Raymond George Shipway (RAAF), Frank George Spencer (RAAF), all killed in action after their RAAF Lancaster was shot down by a night fighter aircraft.
August 12, 1944 – James Ragsdale McCutcheon (USAAF).
Jim Ragsdale McCutcheon was born September 13, 1923, in Fort Davis, Texas, to Bennett Brazil McCutcheon and Celeste (Holt) McCutcheon.
The McCutcheons were wealthy cattle ranchers operating approximately 50 sections of land. They lived on the ranch located about 16-miles outside of Fort Davis, on Limpia Canyon Road, in a 10-bedroom, two-bath house (with indoor plumbing!), made of chiseled native stone. I believe the house still stands and is occupied. Bennett’s brother, Willis W. McCutcheon, was also a prominent cattle rancher in Fort Davis.
As a child Jim used to build and fly gas-powered balsa wood model airplanes. Jim was orphaned at age 16 after the death of Celeste in 1939, and then Bennett in 1940. The McCutcheons lost the ranch. Jim moved to Victoria, Texas, to live with his namesake, Uncle Jim W. Ragsdale, until the young Jim enlisted in the United States Army Air Forces.
Jim was the youngest of four siblings after Bennett Brazil McCutcheon Jr., Martha
McCutcheon and Alfred Holt McCutcheon, who served as an army captain in
Tunisia, North Africa, during the war.